No, I’m not done with the math yet. And I can’t do the tally-up lest my memory cooperates.
Jacquie is accusing me of having enough sex to last her lifetime. Call me a sucker but am either intrigued by myself or contextually jaded which is more or less the same, that I bothered handsome me in proving pretty her wrong.
As I miserably sort out my data accordingly: nature of consent, partner’s nationality, etc., for a PowerPoint Presentation I realized that this is an exercise vain as counting the number of times you ever wrote your name.
Then it came to me in an epiphany that even if I amass all these facts, [permit non sequitur-ishness here] it doesn’t amount to me getting laid anytime soon—and that’s a more pressing concern than the next to impossible as getting-a-hard-on-while-watching-The-700-Club sort of impossibility arithmetic job.
True, compos mentis is not her best adjective but she could have indicted me with other crimes such as being a slut or something. It turns out Jacquie’s more jaded than I am. Doing math on her fake orgasms is just what she needs.
07 April 2006